


A Love That Grows from Here to Timbuktu

by faintyoungsun (sadlygrove)



Category: Inception (2010)
Genre: Backstory, F/M, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-04-19
Updated: 2011-04-19
Packaged: 2017-10-18 09:18:08
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 15,340
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/187335
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sadlygrove/pseuds/faintyoungsun
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“I believe in a love that grows, if you must know. Take that tree there—it had to start small, just a sapling. But with enough attention and sunshine and good old English rain it became large enough to drop a branch on my car last summer. And, just like love, eventually it will wither and die.”</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Love That Grows from Here to Timbuktu

PHILADELPHIA

There are things Arthur knows. He knows that the hairs on the back of his wrist stand up before a thunderstorm in the summer. He knows that he is the youngest government employee in the United States' dreamshare program, earning both respect and ire from superiors and colleagues. Arthur knows that he was fifteen when he learned to tie a Windsor knot. Also, he knows that—despite how beautiful Penn's campus is—he hates Philadelphia. Hates the trash, the summer heat, the shitty subway system. However, Penn is the first university on the east coast to create a masters program in dreamsharing theory, so off to Philadelphia his bosses send him.

Arthur shifts in his seat at the back of the lecture hall, counting the number of students in Mallorie Cobb's class. It's a very selective program, and even as an adjunct professor Mallorie expects the most out of her students. She has passion for dreamsharing, that much is obvious, and Arthur wonders if he's been in the same dream space that she describes with such love.

Mallorie Cobb, formerly Mallorie Miles; aged twenty-eight. Married for two years to her college sweetheart. Born and raised in London, England, before moving to France at age four. Currently an adjunct at Penn University, though she has submitted several resumes to universities in California. Daughter of one Dr. Miles, a pioneer of the PASIV machine and all that lay within. After him, she is reputed as one of the best dream architects in the European Union which, in architect-starved America, makes her the best. The amount of research Arthur did to come to this conclusion was mind-numbing, lengthy, and bordering obsessive. His superiors took his word on Mallorie Cobb being the best after the thirty-seventh slide in Arthur's Power Point; 'Why You Should Let Me Go to Philadelphia and Hire Mallorie Cobb.'

(Arthur has never been super creative, least of all with Power Point titles.)

“That's enough for today; I expect essays with revisions on my desk by Friday. Anything later and you can count on a zero for the course.” She lets a small, wicked smile escape at the sound of groans. “And next week we'll talk about totems and touch on Limbo theory. Class dismissed.”

As the students escape past him, Arthur wonders if any of them have even been hooked up to a PASIV machine. Probably not; legally the military is the only entity that can possess such a powerful device. 

“That was some lecture; I've never seen so many frightened grad students.”

“Just wait until the final exam,” she mutters, packing up her laptop and notes. “If you're looking to audit the course, I'm already well past capacity for students.”

And here he thought the suit made him look at least five years older. “No, I'm Arthur. We spoke over the phone last week.”

“My god, you're a real person.” She chuckles to herself, not noticing Arthur's arched eyebrow. “And here I thought Eames was playing a trick on me. Well, it's a pleasure to actually meet you. Hold these.” Mallorie shoves a stack of textbooks into the offered handshake. “Let's walk.”

“Uh. Sure.” Arthur hasn't carried books for a teacher since the second grade, but Mallorie Cobb is already brushing past him, through the double doors and into one of Penn's labyrinthine buildings. “So, about--”

“Press the button please; my hands are full.”

“I, yeah sure.” Arthur hits the tiny up arrow with an elbow, the elevator opening immediately.

“Sixth floor.”

He does as he's told, always the diligent student. “So as I was saying, the military is interested in offering you a contract to do some work for our new program. It would be full-time, starting as soon as possible, but I'm sure Penn would be more than willing to arrange a sabbatical for your time off.”

Mallorie hums as the doors open, and walks—glides, this woman doesn't walk, she  _glides_ —out into the hallway of the Psychology department because Dreamsharing doesn't have it's own floor yet. (Arthur was very thorough in his research.)

Arthur is hot on her heels. “I know that isn't a lot of detail to start with, but what I can tell you is that you'll be paid well for your services.” He almost bumps into her when she stops to open an office door—didn't even bother to lock it—and tosses her laptop bag at a chair. “Should I... just set these books on the desk?”

“Yes, be a dear.” With a sigh, Mallorie drops into a chair, kicking off her shoes under the desk. “And hand me that teacup on the shelf.” It's a tiny thing with roses and a golden handle, pristine for a college professor's teacup. No rings of weeks-old coffee in it, nor is there a speck of dust on any book in the shelf. Arthur is impressed, frankly. “Thank you, Arthur. Now, what were you saying?”

“Maybe now isn't such a great time to talk business,” he says wryly, watching as Mallorie unscrews a thermos and pours out a sweet-smelling concoction into the cup. He wouldn't be surprised if there was a shot or two of brandy or something in it. Teaching is a hell of a job.

“I've had three classes so far, and two more in the afternoon,” Mallorie says, more to the teacup than Arthur. “And not a single spark of creativity was to be had. I'll need to drown my scholarly sorrows in a bottle of wine tonight.”

“Would you like to save this until dinner, then?”

“I'm already meeting my husband at a place on Market Street.”

“Well, then tomorrow is--”

“So you may as well join us.”

You may as well.

And just like that—Arthur marks that little sentence as 'before' and 'after'--he becomes a happy third wheel to Mallorie Cobb and her husband. 

  


  


“What does the military use the PASIV machines and dreams for? I want to know exactly, to put the rumors to rest.”

“It's really not much of a secret; anyone could figure it out. We use it for training, making simple obstacle courses and simulating firefights, hand-to-hand combat and--”

“Bestial,” Mallorie mutters, taking a long sip of red wine. “Just a waste.”

Arthur cocks an eyebrow. “How is our national security a waste, Mrs. Cobb?”

“Please; it's like setting fire to a freshly set canvas.” She traces the rim of her glass, and for all the world looks with pity at Arthur. “Have you ever tried to create something out of the dream space? To be an artist?” Her eyes are searching, cheeks touched with just a hint of color from the Bordeaux. She's had more of the bottle than he; Arthur won't drink more than a glass, not ever. “Have you ever created in the dream space?”

“I've only killed within it.”

“Have you killed outside of it,” she asks softly.

“I was stationed in Iraq for three tours.”

Mallorie waits.

Arthur shifts in his seat. “I have.”

Around them, there is the delicate sound of silver clinking on china, of genial chatter and subdued laughter. 

“I,” she says slowly, breaking her stare, “had a reoccurring dream when I was a little girl in Paris. I was flying, on a magic carpet, high above cities I'd never seen before. That dream was the best—do you know why? Because there was no possible way I could do that in real life.” There is a pause, and she's still smiling, and Arthur feels like a young boy. “Arthur.” Mallorie Cobb puts her hand on top of his; it is warm and soft, nails painted burgundy. “You should fly on a magic carpet, just once in your life.”

“I'm not an artist,” he says automatically, glancing down at lithe fingers.

“I think you could be a builder, if only you'd try.”

And Arthur falls in love with Mallorie a little, like he'd fallen in love with his piano teacher who'd said it was okay for boys to play. Like he'd fallen in love with the painting of Napoleon crossing the Alps and grown smitten with Jack London. Because of Mallorie, Arthur is speechless and hopeful when he happens to meet Dominic Cobb for the first time.

“Mal? Is this the guy?”

“Dom.” Her face lights up like a thousand candles on stained glass and she kisses him on the cheek. “Meet Arthur; he's the one who called me last month.” 

Composed again, he stands, taking Dominic's offered hand. “A pleasure.”

“Likewise,” the man says, though the sentiment doesn't show on his features. His gray suit is rumpled, there are dark bags under his eyes and a stiffness to his shoulders as he sits beside his wife.

Arthur knows that look well; “How was your flight?”

Tired blue eyes glance over to Mallorie's amused chuckle. “Did you tell him my flight was delayed in LA?”

“I didn't.”

“West to east jet lag is always the worst.” Arthur takes a sip of water, passing over the wine. “And there's a ticket stub sticking out of your pocket.”

“Hmph.” Dominic shakes his napkin loose, finally letting a grin slip through. “Philly Airport has the worst parking system.”

“I'd say O'Hare has it beat.”

“Want to put money on that?” 

“I'm not much of a gambler, Mr. Cobb.”

“Shame.” He flags down the waiter so they can all order—the Cobbs getting “The usual, please,” and Arthur settling on pasta—and talk turns to the weather, French music, house prices on the west coast, and whether the Phillies have a chance this year.

“You're insane if you think they're going to pull what they did last season. Yankees are going to clinch it, just watch.”

“The Yankees?” Dominic squints at him, scrutinizing. “Hey, it's your choice, just don't blame me when you burn in hell.”

“Don't make me shoot you, Mr. Cobb.”

“Spoken like a true Yankees fan.”

Beside them, Mallorie smiles, watching, laughing, and finally yawning. “Enough, you two; the restaurant closed ten minutes ago. The waitresses are glaring at us.” She hits Dominic lightly with her purse as she stands. “You realize you both were chatting like schoolgirls and not businessmen, hm?”

She's right; they didn't even discuss a bit of dreamsharing. Arthur feels more surprised than anything that he enjoyed himself enough to forget his task. At least the couple probably trusts him even more now, so from a business standpoint dinner wasn't a complete waste. “Tomorrow then? I'm here all week.”

“And I have class and office hours everyday. But Dom is quite free.” Mallorie lifts up a hand before Arthur can protest. “He is my partner; everything I know, he knows. We are one and the same.”

So Arthur settles for that and exchanges phone numbers, tells Dominic to get some rest, and lets them take the first cab out of the city. He's got a hotel room at 14th and Market anyway, just six blocks, so Arthur walks the distance with a lighter step than he's had in ages.

  


  


He can't remember how the question came up, but later Dom would concede that it's one people in Philadelphia ask outsiders all the time. Often with an air of superiority, if Arthur remembers correctly:

“You ever have a Philly cheesesteak?”

“Uh. No?”

“Where did you grow up?”

“That's classified, Mr.--”

“Of course. Well I know it was outside of New Jersey and PA if you've never had a cheesesteak.”

They go to Pat's (“Fuck Geno's,” Dominic mutters, though he can't really explain his loyalty to one legendary rival cheesesteak stand when Arthur asks) and order with the other businessmen on lunch, students skipping class, and yuppies leaving the safety of the suburbs. It's probably the best sandwich he's ever had, but Arthur doesn't need to say as much; Dominic knows, Pat knows, and everyone else at the outdoor tables knows it's his first cheesesteak like it's written on his face. Philadelphia becomes less of a shithole in Arthur's mind. (Slightly.)

When they're finished—Arthur contemplating a second sandwich, so help his arteries—they stay at the tables. “So, let's just cut to the chase. Why's the military hounding my wife?”

“I'm not sure 'hounding' is the right word.”

“Uh-huh. Courting, then?”

Dominic Cobb; aged twenty-six, married two years. Went to Paris to study abroad in college and met his wife, the daughter of one of his architecture professors. Grew up in Philadelphia, Pennsylvania, USA. Blue eyes. No parents or siblings. A trophy husband, if his lack of employment is anything to go by. Nothing else of note, Arthur remembers from the file, but for an unremarkable man Arthur is finding Dominic Cobb to be a remarkable pleasure.

“The military is interested in dream space architects, for our own Dreamshare program. Your wife is the best.”

“You want to hire her even though she's French?”

“Einstein was German and he worked for the United States.”

“True.” Dominic polishes off the last of his sandwich, dripping with meat and cheese and delicious onions. “Why do you guys need architects all of a sudden? The last head of the FBI said they were unnecessary and the EU was wasting money on them. I thought the US military just killed people in the dream space.”

Arthur feels the corner of his lip twitch. “Now we'd like to kill people in fancy buildings.”

“Hm. You could just get a bunch of grad students to make bunkers and bases; Mal won't be interested.” He wipes his hand on a napkin, shaking his head. “There's no way she'd want to create those.”

“What exactly does she want to make?”

“Art.” Dominic grins wryly. “Cathedrals, spires, statues—art, Arthur. You'd need someone else who doesn't have a problem selling themselves out for cash.”

“We're not interested in grad students,” he says, a bit frustrated. Frustrated because—after just one meeting with Mallorie—he knows Dominic is right. She won't do it. “The US can't afford to fall behind. We want the best.”

“Well, you'll have to settle for second best.”

“And who's second best?”

Dominic Cobb smiles, spreads his hands wide. “You're looking at him.”

  


  


MANCHESTER

Back before he adopted his name—saw some amazing chairs at an art museum on an outing with his mother—Eames had a life revolving around another name, a posher name—Earnest _______. And not just any Earnest _______, Earnest the fifth, mind you, the fifth in a long line of Earnests who liked money and drinking when their stiff upper lips would allow brandy in. One of his ancestors had relocated to Manchester from wherever that ancient castle was his mother insisted they go to every summer holiday.

He never did drugs, he never drank more than he could throw back up again, and he's never knocked up a classmate. Earnest had another vice instead: lying. The rush of a lie hit him straight to his bones; he was hooked the first time little Sally Shumacher believed Earnest's adamant declarations that people from Wales were actually descended from large underwater mammals. 

Hence the name, you see.

“My family is of Russian descent, on my mother's side, kicked out when the Bolsheviks took over. All of the nobility had to flee the country, naturally.”

“I was going to do my homework, honestly, but my younger sister got lost in the woods and I spent all night finding her while my parents were dining with Sean Connery.”

“Of course that's my mother's signature; she makes her Ls all loopy. If you want to call her, that's fine, but she's on a very important case for M15 and'll have your neck if you blow her cover. Endangering national security can hardly be outweighed by an F on a spelling exam, don't you agree?”

The lies got better—the more subtle, Earnest learned, the greater the effect—and he found new ways to lie, to enhance the ones he'd crafted like ships in bottles: Different accents to pick up blokes at the bars (“Bet you've never been with an American before.”), recreating famous paintings in art class just to see if he could do it ('Earnest lacks originality in his work'), and a small tear of emotion when absolutely necessary (thinking of his dog getting hit by a car when he was seven seemed to help). 

And he learned that a confident stride was the best lie, either to walk past a hall monitor or into a London concert with forged tickets. Lies tasted like honey, sounded like sweet music, and could easily be better than the truth anyway.

Then one day, his maths teacher—a nun with a patient smile and cold eyes—asked him a question:

“Do you want to go where all liars go?”

Earnest had been lying for ten years by that point—practically a professional!—and kept his expression genial while something hardened in the pit of his stomach. “Into politics?” His classmates snickered.

“Hell, Mr. ______.” There was a crucifix behind her head, over the chalkboard where she'd probably make him write lines after school. “That's where liars go.”

There was no point in arguing with that, specifically, so he ignored it. “I'm telling you, Sister, I didn't take the--”

“Liars and thieves, Earnest. They go to Hell. And you will write that on the board today until the message gets through.”

“But--”

“Sit. Class, turn to page seventy--”

And wouldn't you know it, the first time he'd been telling the truth, no one believed him. So why bother?

He'd never really liked maths. Earnest wrote as such on the chalkboard before Eames walked out of the school, never once glancing back.

  


  


WASHINGTON D.C.

The train ride from Philadelphia to D.C. takes a few hours, but Dominic—“Dom; call me Dom.”—Dom doesn't seem to mind the ride. Arthur meets him outside the Air and Space Museum the first time, September warm on pavement. Dom is sitting on a bench with a little packet of the astronaut freeze-dried ice cream, watching as busloads of kids ascend the stairs for a Wednesday fieldtrip.

“I was wrong,” he says as soon as Arthur sits beside him. “You're going to have to settle for third best.”

“Excuse me?” 

“I'm off the market.”

“You couldn't have told me that over the phone? We had a deal.” Arthur tries not to seethe. If this man had any idea of all the cajoling and ass-kissing he had to do to allow just this simple meeting... “I don't think you understand--”

“Mal's pregnant.”

“--the. Understand, the... Oh.” Oh. “Uh. Congratulations.”

“Thanks.” Dom chucks the wrapper into the waste bin; he's glowing, Arthur notices. Like he's the one who's pregnant. There is no way in hell this man is going to give that up. “So. I'm going to be a father,” he says like he can't quite believe it. 

Third best it is, then. Arthur suppresses a sigh. He's not looking forward to more long-distance traveling. “And who's that,” he asks and prays it's a single man in Virginia within driving distance. 

“You.”

And his prayers are answered.

  


  


For all the repeated butt-kissing he thought he was going to have to do, Arthur is pleasantly surprised; his bosses jump at the chance of having their own military born-and-bred trained by one of the best dream architects. It'll be a hell of a lot easier for the boys down in payroll, at any rate. 

“Eight months,” Dom says, slapping Arthur on the back. “Eight months and I'll have you constructing canyons made out of skyscrapers. And you'll help pay for my new house in Los Angeles.”

Arthur adds to Dom's file; Dominic Cobb: Twenty-seven. Married two years. Free-lance dream space specialist (because he has no idea how else to describe it) trained in France. Father of one.

“Happy birthday,” Dom says one Tuesday, dropping a book on Arthur's desk. He's got a visitor badge for the Pentagon and a grin a mile wide.

“It's not my--”

“Yeah, but I'm sure that's classified too, so I'm making a wild guess.”

“M.C. Escher?”

“Today's lesson. Study hard.”

Arthur had only ever shot guns and killed people—his classmates, his underlings, anyone unlucky enough to go up against him on the roster—in the dream space. It had been easy, cold and dark. When he creates his first infinite staircase, his heart swells to the point of bursting. He wants to be as good at creating as he is at killing, or at least come close.

“Nice. Now do it again. Only bigger. And better.”

“You're worse than my old drill sergeants.”

Dom laughs, rich and deep. He is the kind of person that was probably captain of his soccer or baseball team, giving inspirational speeches when the game was tied and helping carry injured teammates off the grass. He is a leader, through and through, and Arthur can't help but like Dom Cobb. 

“Make me a bridge out of glass or drop and give me twenty.”

And Dom is wrong; within just six months, Arthur is creating cities block by block, cold hard factual cities with bombed-out buildings and twisted metal to replicate what his bosses need. Arthur makes swampland for aquatic landings, deserted islands for survival training, bases for stealth and infiltration. It's not art, per say, but Arthur has never been an artist.

“Give a man a city and he can shoot at projections for a day. Teach a man to build a city and...” Dom whistles from atop a decapitated office building. “Well, looks like my work is done here.”

Arthur frowns, finger stiffening on the sniper rifle. “Technically you still have two months left in the contract.” He's not sure he's ready to see Dom go yet; they've really only spent odd days these past months together, Dom's time with Mal taking precedent, but in the dream space it may as well have been years. 

Arthur wants to learn more; he wants to know everything about this mythical place. Arthur feels like a god and he's not ready quite yet to give that up to churn out gray bunkers one after the other.

(Later he'll realize that he'll never be ready to give up that power.)

“True. But I'm not sure what else would be useful to you. I doubt you need to know how to make different styles of carpeting or buttresses or windmills.”

“Take the gun.”

“What?”

“Try it.” Arthur scoots over, making room. “Look through the scope and don't hold your breath; it's hard not to your first time, but it messes up your aim. Trust me.”

Warily, Dom takes the rifle, tries to mimic Arthur's earlier position and fails miserably. “Er, how do I...”

“Like this.” Arthur moves an elbow here, a knee there. “Try hitting the stop sign at the end of the block.”

Maybe he'd been expecting Dom to protest a little more, but he doesn't. Arthur watches him pull the trigger, miss the sign—he'd held his breath—and take the recoil in his shoulder with a wince. “Shit.”

“Not bad.” Arthur reclaims the gun and reloads it before handing it back. He takes a leap of faith as Dom takes the rifle: “What do you say you teach me some things not specified in the contract, and I do the same? It'll be... good practice.”

Dom just grins and pulls the trigger once more.

  


  


It's around the time Dom emails him a picture of Mal with their second child that Arthur disappears from Washington forever. (Too dangerous to go back, he thinks, though he'll miss the subterranean clean-cut lines of the Metro and sleek escalators that go up, up, up—especially at Roslyn and L'Enfant Plaza.) 

He doesn't tell Dom about his sudden departure from the Pentagon, despite Dom himself working in a moral gray area. (But it's okay; Dom knows and doesn't have to ask.) There are kids involved now, and Arthur keeps his distance for the most part—until Mal and Dom tell him to get his ass to a birthday party or two—and keeps contact through brief emails over protected servers. 

Arthur takes his file and Dom's and burns them, hacks them, deletes them. He steals a PASIV machine and bids his office chair adieu. It's time to run to that high he needs.

Arthur ______: Age, twenty-five. Eyes, brown. No other information available, and he's going to keep it that way for a long, long time.

  


  


PARIS

“What do you think of it?”

Mal inspects it closely, nose almost brushed up against the yellow sunflower petals; if they were in the real world, she'd be able to smell the paint. “It's lovely,” she says finally, “for a complete fake. Père will be pleased to know you're as much a scoundrel in a dream museum as a real one.”

“Naturally. What more could your father expect of his prized lab rat?”

“This, however.” She pokes the nameplate at the bottom of the gold frame. “This is atrocious.”

“Hm?” Eames cocks his head to the side; it appears perfectly fine to him.

“Van Go?”

Eames shrugs.

“There is an 'H' in his name, honestly.” 

“Trifles.”

“He's not a car, Eames.” Mal smiles wryly. “Your spelling is simply the worst.”

“Just because I spelled your name wrong on that fake ID the first time we met--”

“Sometimes I think you do it on purpose,” she mutters. 

“You wound. Shall we go for a stroll before the kick?” With a cavalier smile that's sure to drive her insane, Eames takes Mal's elbow gently, steering her through the projections milling about the art museum. “Or am I being too forward now that you're about to be a kept woman?”

“Don't be so sour about it.”

“I am nothing of the sort.”

“You would like him, really, if you gave him half a chance.”

“I suppose he is quite dreamy in that bland American way of his.” Eames smiles, turning away and melding into a different skin. His accent changes, his eyes become more blue and his hair a shade lighter. “But I bet he's nothing of a dancer.”

Mal halts, heels clicking against the marble floor, and crosses her arms. They're alone in the wing with impressionist paintings— _Woman with a Parasol_  and _Bal du moulin de la Galette_ staring out at them—and nothing else. “Stop that.”

“Stop what?”

“Being people you're not meant to be, just for a laugh.” Mal blows her bangs from her eyes and Eames knows she's serious. “You're going to lose sight of yourself one of these days, when you assume too much about those you don't know.”

“Don't be ridiculous, love,” Eames says, though he steps forward and out of Dominic's skin regardless. “None of your father's silly experiments on me ever proved that.”

“I don't mean—” A sigh. “Never mind. You're insufferable.”

“Of course I am. Look at the way I dress. Care for one last dance?” Edith Piaf on Dr. Miles' old headphones plays not a moment later, echoing off marble floors. The weight of the Glock in Eames' jacket is solid and warm as he extends a hand. “Mademoiselle?”

Mal looks at the fingers and palm and wrist coyly for a moment. “You'll try to make it to the wedding?”

“Absolutely,” Eames lies. 

“No sudden business in Johannesburg or jobs in Brussels?”

“Cross my heart, love.”

“All right.” She takes his hand.

  


  


MOSCOW

Arthur is never going to skimp on research again. Oh he pulled all of his weight in regards to the mark, to be sure. Arthur researched his family (dysfunctional) and his medical history (vasectomy without telling his wife or girlfriend) and even what kind of cereal he prefers in the morning (Fruit Loops, yuck). But what—who—Arthur didn't bother to research was his teammates, specifically the extractor that double-crossed them and is the reason he's crouched behind a dumpster with Nash.

“Shit, can you believe that guy!”

“Mmhm,” Arthur hums, new magazine in his teeth as the Glock spits out the old one. For a moment he reflects how sad it is that the only time he feels alive in the real world is when someone's trying to kill him. Then he shoves in the new magazine and promptly forgets the thought.

“No one has any goddamned decency left!” Nash shrieks as a bullet takes out a piece of brick right above their heads.

“It could be worse.”

“How the hell could it--”

“It could be winter.”

“Fuck!” 

Another bullet hits the wall, and Arthur makes an executive decision: “We're splitting up.”

“What?!”

“There's only four of them, only two who have guns and they're preoccupied with covering the other guys anyway. This job isn't salvageable and suddenly not worth the price. You go left, I go right, and I'm wishing you the best of luck.”

“I'm not doing that!”

“Then stay here.” 

Arthur hears Nash curse as he runs out from behind the dumpster, bullets flying—not even close, he thinks—and Arthur may enjoy Moscow during the day but during the night it's a different matter. Echoes of his feet hitting pavement reverberate in alleyways a tad too loud. The moon is a little too bright for him to hide effectively. The distance between one roof and the next is a bit too difficult to judge. But the bullets stop, Arthur's lungs tight for air, and he slows down to a walk, takes a left then a right and doubles back again just to be safe, and blends in with the crowd on the main streets as he winds his way to the anonymity of the shopping district.

His phone rings, and he nearly jumps out of his skin.

“Dom? Hello?”

“Arthur, hey! How are you?” 

“...Fine.”

“And how'd the job go, the one you told me about last month?”

Arthur grits his teeth, dodges window shoppers out for an evening stroll. “Fine.”

“Uh... huh. Well you can tell me all about it next week. You're still coming, right?”

“I'm not sure it's safe if--”

“It's probably less safe to piss off Mal. You know she hates it when people back out of her events.”

There's no arguing with that. Arthur sighs. “Yeah. Yeah, I'll be there. Just for the evening though.”

“Glad to hear it—and don't forget to bring a present.” 

At the airport, after he's spent a few days maiming and losing two unlucky hitmen, Arthur picks up a set of Russian nesting dolls and boards a plane for France.

  


  


LYON

The first time Eames meets Arthur, it's at Mal's childhood summer home, next to a beautiful field just beyond a huge oak tree. Or maybe it's sycamore. Eames can never tell. He's a thief, not a botanist, damn it.

It's Dom that does the introductions: “Arthur, this is Mal's friend Eames—Eames, Arthur.”

“Charmed.”

“Nice to meet you.”

And then the birthday girl screams—James put mud in her hair—and Dom scampers off and Eames is left grasping Arthur's hand awkwardly.

It would probably be rude to just drop it and walk back to the punch bowl.

Eames clears his throat and gives Arthur's hand one last shake. “Fancy a drink?”

“Uh, I don't really--”

Phillipa screams again.

“You know what? Yes. Yes, please.”

“Come on; let's break into their stash.” 

Eames is a quick study of most people, and out of everyone at the little party, Arthur's tie and cufflinks tell Eames he's probably the only other childless bloke in the bunch. He's a smart dresser, everything in its proper place, likely anal-retentive, and out of his comfort zone at a kid's birthday party. For all he cares, Eames has found a friend, and he will not be letting him escape until his Mal-imposed two hour party time sentence is up and done. 

Skip one wedding and you pay for it with the rest of your life.

“Do you think Mal's parents will mind,” Arthur asks, following Eames past the porch doors and into the safety of the silent house. 

“Her father knows me well enough to expect this. And her mother is horrendous enough that I don't care.” From his pocket, Eames pulls out two tiny pins and makes quick work of the locked study door, swinging it open. “See? Dr. Miles even left the brandy out of the liquor cabinet. Doesn't want me scratching the lock.”

Arthur inspects the little note with a raised eyebrow. “'Eames—just lock the door when you're done so the kids get don't get in and disorganize my papers.' Your reputation precedes you, Mr. Eames,” he says dryly.

There's only the briefest pause as Eames sets out two tumblers. He's inclined to make a joke--'Mr. Eames is my father's name'. But that's hardly true, is it? “Well, I suppose you could say I'm something of a professional.” Eames winks.

“In dreams, you mean.”

Eames has had enough practice over the years to hide any surprise. “I suppose it is rather obvious, attending a party thrown by the Cobbs.”

“That and the needle prick on your wrist.”

“So observant.” Eames takes a sip of brandy. “I take it you're of the same profession?”

It takes a moment for Arthur to answer—Eames can practically hear the cogs and gears moving inside his perfectly groomed head. “Yes.” Arthur sets down the glass without even having a taste, instead crossing his arms across his chest. “I work on point.”

“Christ,” Eames snorts, “I wish we had a point on our last job in Moscow the other day, it almost went all pear sh--”

There's a gun in his face, and Eames isn't quite sure how it got there, except it probably has something to do with how poorly he'd actually read Arthur earlier.

“...come now, at a little girl's birthday party?”

(Eames has had much practice hiding surprise.)

“What are the chances,” Arthur asks, scowling, “that your job was to help fuck up a similar one? Same time, same place?”

“You're not going to shoot me here, so put the gun down.”

“What makes you think I won't shoot you?”

“Mal would tear you limb from limb.”

Arthur seems to think that over for a moment. “I could just beat you with it. Really hard.”

“Listen, to be perfectly honest, it's quite possible that we... crossed paths, in Moscow. But it was just business; no reason to get all--”

“Uncle Eames?”

Well, shit.

Eames glances over to the doorway, glass of brandy still clutched in his hands. “Phillipa, dear, what are you doing inside? Your guests are waiting.”

“Momma says you bet' not be sneaking away early.” The tiny nymph's eyes narrow, and she is her mother's daughter, God help Eames. “What are you doing?”

Arthur suddenly seems to recall he has a gun pointing at Eames' nose and shoves it back under his jacket. “Uh--”

“Pet, Uncle Eames and Uncle Arthur--” He revels in how that makes Arthur stiffen. “--are just playing a game.” Eames gets to one knee and pats golden locks, giving Phillipa his best smile.

“What game?”

Eames thinks for a moment. “Russian roulette.”

Arthur nearly chokes.

“Is it fun?”

“Five times out of six it is.”

She glances between them both, frowning. “Did you get me a present?”

“We certainly did. Didn't we, Uncle Arthur?”

“'We' did?”

“We did! And we'll give it to you as soon as we go outside and dish out the cake, hm? Let's go, pet.” 

“Alright.” Phillipa turns and marches back to her party.

“Very nice of you to cover for me, Arthur,” Eames says, standing. 

“What the hell happened to your own present?”

“Customs confiscated it.” Eames sighs and tops off his brandy far beyond the line of 'gentleman' and into the 'lush' territory. “Such a pity.”

“What in god's name could you have possibly gotten that—you know what?” Arthur grabs his own glass and stalks out of the study. “I don't want to know.”

“Probably for the best.” Eames locks the door behind him and follows Arthur back outside like a moth drawn to flame. Arthur is already settled on one of the wicker lawn chairs—blessedly far from most of the family and commotion—and Eames plops down next to him, obviously to the man's ire. 

“You cost me a small fortune in Russia,” Arthur growls.

“It was nothing personal, I assure. So! What did we get Phillipa, Uncle Arthur?”

Arthur snorts and finally takes a long sip of his drink. “You'd just steal it from me, wouldn't you?”

“Possibly.”

“Russian nesting dolls. Ten pieces and they're gold and purple.”

“Wonderful; you've such good taste.”

A scathing brown eye takes in Eames' pink socks, but Arthur says nothing.

“So how exactly do you know Mr. Cobb?”

“None of your business.”

“I could always just ask him; you know he'd have no problem telling me,” Eames says, all false sweetness.

“Hpmh.” A pause, and Eames waits it out. “We did a job together—a legal job, a two or three years ago. And how do you know Mal?”

“I've known her since before she attended university and Mr. Cobb swept her off her feet.”

“You don't like him, do you?”

“Am I so obvious?” Eames smirks. “I don't hate him, but.” He lifts his glass to his lips. “She could have done better,” he murmurs.

“You mean you?”

“I said better.”

“He loves her.”

Eames raises an eyebrow at that. He's used to rebuttals concerning one Dominic Cobb. He's heard all of the 'Oh he's a nice guy's, all of the 'He'd make a fantastic dad's and even the 'Her father likes him, you should too's. But—unless he's missed it, which is impossible—he's never heard a 'He loves her' before. Because maybe in theory it sounds lame, sounds like hardly a worthy explanation, but once said into the crisp autumn air, there's no plainer truth.

But sometimes Eames can be a reluctant bastard, if anything. “Supposedly,” he mutters.

Beside him, Arthur rolls his eyes. “What are you, stupid? Just look at them.” He motions with his glass. Mal is cutting slices of cake and Dom is just staring at her, stupid love-struck grin on his face and he doesn't even notice when Phillipa gets his shoes with the hose.

For someone who makes his livelihood studying people, Eames is hit with the sudden notion that this is the first time he's seeing Dom Cobb.

Arthur yawns, settles into his lawn chair and crosses his feet at the ankles. “They were made for each other.”

After a quiet moment, Eames says, “I didn't take you for a believer in that sort of thing.”

“Honestly I didn't believe in too much before I met them; Dom's the one who--” Arthur stops, glances over at Eames warily.

“He showed you how to dream, didn't he?” Eames lets a fond smile tug at his lips; across the yard, Mal smudges a dollop of icing on Dom's nose. “She was the one to show me.”

“Really?”

“Mmn. Her father and his compatriots wanted to experiment with forging and they decided that the best way to start was with someone who knew how to actually do it in the real world.” Eames shrugs and downs the rest of his brandy before continuing. “Mal had a bit of a wild streak before university and knew some shady people.”

“Shady people like you.”

“Like me.”

“Do you love her?”

The sun sets in the field behind the yard, making everything turn golden and warm.

“How could anyone not? Just look at her. She's lovely.”

“Yeah, I... yeah, I know what you mean. Both of them are pretty amazing people.”

Mal is laughing, voice clear like a bell as she takes the hose and helps get the icing off Dom's face. Arthur and Eames only stare, content to watch as the minutes tick by and they ignore (and are ignored) by all else. 

It's only when Phillipa opens their (Arthur's) present and runs over that the moment ends: “Thank you Uncle Eames, Uncle... Arthur,” she says by rote before scampering away.

“You're welcome, pet.”

Beside him, Arthur simply gives the girl half a smile, a whole one reaching his eyes. 

Eames decides that he's not so bad. For an American, anyway.

“Well, I must be off. Train to Munich to catch and all that. It was lovely chatting with you, and sorry again about that whole almost killing you thing.” Eames winks, and Arthur visibly recoils at it this time, shaken out of his lazy smile.

“Trying; you tried to--”

“Here,” Eames interrupts with a long drawl. He scratches a few numbers down on the back of a business card he swiped from a motel God-knows-when. “My number. You were good.”

Arthur takes it and blinks. “I was what?”

“In Moscow.” Eames grins wickedly. “I'm pretty sure you're the reason our job almost went all pear shaped. We should work together, you on point and I'll do the more glamorous bits, what do you say?”

“...I'll have to think about it.” But Arthur tucks the card into a pocket regardless.

“We could be marvelous together, Uncle Arthur.” Arthur looks ill, Eames chuckles. “Working together, that is. What did you think I--”

“I think you should go say goodbye before I shoot you in front of the children.”

“Fair enough,” Eames smirks, raising his hands in a placating gesture. “But you're the one who believes people are made for each other.”

“I doubt we're one of those pairs, Mr. Eames.”

“I suppose we'll just have to find out, won't we?”

 

  


BARCELONA

“Christ, I have never seen so many hookers in my entire life.”

“Did you think most people came here for the museums? Arthur, I thought you were cleverer than that.”

Arthur lets the curtain fall shut, blocking the view to the dark city street. “Is everything ready?”

“He's out cold. Why don't you come with me? It'll be bloody boring here anyway; not even a decent television in the room.” 

“Pimps don't have militarized projections.” 

“My fingers are crossed for sexy projections, personally.”

“You really don't need a second. Someone should watch the room.” 

“We bought out the bellboy, the maid and the girls at the front desk—don't be jittery. Besides. You can construct the dream, let me focus more on the task at hand. And I'll bet you've never seen anyone forge before. At least,” Eames smirks, “no one so professional as I.”

It's true. And if Arthur does anything, it's research. “If you double cross me, I'll tell Mal.” 

“That's quite harsh, actually,” Eames mutters. 

Arthur sets himself up and jabs a matching needle into Eames' wrist. 

He winces. “You've the bedside manner of Dr. Jekyll.”

“Better that than Mr. Hyde.” Arthur pushes the PASIV button, darkness surrounding like a tidal wave.

  


  


Arthur's nervous about this job; it's his first time working with Eames, and old grudges die hard. But he doesn't know any other forgers and there's a strict time limit thanks to some legal loopholes. So Arthur shoves it out of his mind and concentrates on orange groves, ponds of fish, and a spring breeze stirring linen curtains. And that's where he wakes up.

(Maybe 'wakes up' isn't the right term.)

The shingles on the roof are a little crooked—grudges die hard, nervousness leads to mistakes—but otherwise the world is perfection. Dom would be proud.

“Ah, where's the dining room?”

Arthur turns. “Where's the—did you even look at the plans I emailed you? Is that why you wanted me to come into the dream, because you forgot!?”

“We could quibble or we could get to work, the choice is yours of course.”

“Just... Christ.” Arthur rubs his temples. “Through the curtains; he should be eating inside.”

“Let's get this done with; I've a plane to Mexico City in four hours. I'm going in.” 

“Wait—we need to check the perimeters first and--”

“ _Four hours_ , Arthur. Have you any idea how hellish customs and immigration is these days? Not to mention while using a Swedish passport that barely even looks like you any longer?”

Arthur doesn't, so he snaps his mouth shut because  _what the hell is this guy's problem._

And Eames steps forward, under one branch hanging low with oranges, and Arthur witnesses a Forgery for the first time: Eames passes the tree trunk, all ill-fitting suit and plaid socks, and a Spanish girl with dark curls and a matching blue dress emerges on the other side. Everything is perfect, down to the very length of her eyelashes and favorite shade of nail polish.

Arthur is speechless.

“Like what you see?” Even altered, Eames' voice sounds scandalous. “Really, Arthur, I didn't peg you for the type.”

“Type of—what type?” Arthur clears his throat. “No, it's—you look just like her photograph.”

“That's the idea.” Eames hasn't dressed the girl in shoes, but he walks across the orchard easily, a sway to his hips that certainly wasn't there before. It's difficult to not be impressed by the little touches Eames puts into his work. 

He—she—saunters into the country house, past the billowing curtains. The projections are butlers and servants—Arthur dressed to match—and they don't even notice the new guest or the man following her. Arthur busies himself straightening lavish paintings on the walls with his gloved hands as Eames begins: 

The mark sees his deceased sister and nearly chokes on his dreamed sangria. Eames' voice is sweet and just a little bit desperate—Arthur watches as much as he can—as he says hello, brother, are you surprised to see me? And the mark goes through all the motions, sputtering, stuttering, going as pale as a ghost as his sister cajoles him desperately to tell where the dead prostitute is buried, to _save his very soul_. Arthur polishes a spoon on his sleeve, skirting around oblivious projections as Eames lets a small tear snake down his cheek because what would _Mamá_  say, if she knew, and I'll tell her when I see her again—tell her what a horrible  _hijo_  you've been. He's an easy mark to break, sobbing into his soup, telling Eames over and over that the girl is in a field in Argentona thee hours away.

Arthur doesn't know if it's just for show or genuine pity, but Eames kisses the distraught man on the forehead before disappearing behind linen curtains once more.

When Arthur meets him in the barn ten minutes later, Eames is still a woman. “How are the projections?”

“Stable; nothing amiss. You were good,” Arthur says before he can think it over. So he adds hastily, “But next time stick to the plan. Let's get out of here.”

“Oh please. Everything went fine, don't be a stick in the mud.” Eames—Eames as the girl—smiles coyly and wraps an arm around Arthur's stiff shoulders. “Or maybe you should be a stick in my--”

Arthur shoots Eames once for the kick, twice because he's an asshole.

  


  


TOKYO

Eames lets it slip after their fifth time working together—on jobs much, much harder than the Barcelona job, particularly this one. Maybe it was the stress level of a month under cover, maybe it was the comfort level of knowing Arthur's ticks better. It doesn't really matter, though, because Eames says it as they're heading to the drop off point at Ebisu station, even though Arthur was supposed to go alone: “Well someone needs to watch your back, darling.”

It just slips out, and like that it's there forever.

The way Arthur's knuckles tighten on the briefcase let Eames know he heard it, let Eames know he thought something of it. “Everyone else is already heading for the airport or train station; you should do the same, Mr. Eames.”

“My flight's not until tomorrow,” Eames says with a shrug.

Arthur sighs that sigh—that 'there's really no point in arguing over such a small, stupid thing' sigh—and mutters, “Whatever, fine,” and Eames follows him off the Yamanote, to the lockers, watches from a distance as Arthur shoves the briefcase into number four, and rejoins him on the platform. “See, nothing even happened.”

“You never know, darling.” 

And there it is again, Eame's tongue taking him by surprise like the first time he'd told a lie when he hadn't even needed to. He glances at Arthur; there's the customary eye roll, but other than that, everything is normal. Like Eames gave him paisley sweater for Christmas and Arthur rolled his eyes, but put it on anyway. 

Both this and the mental image of Arthur in a paisley sweater please Eames. He's not sure he wants to acknowledge why that is; not quite yet.

They go out for sushi near Yoyogi station—“Eames, get that wasabi away from my plate or I'll shove it up your--”—and it's a Kirin beer for Eames, green tea for Arthur. Karaoke is suggested until Arthur reminds Eames he still has his gun, and they call it a night and retreat to Shibuya. At the gigantic scramble crossing, their shoulders bump when they cross the street, but in Tokyo that's really nothing special. Arthur goes to his hotel, Eames to the eighth floor of of his, and he settles in for some quality Japanese television where game show contestants jump into buckets of squid.

It's about 2 AM when Eames decides to pick up his phone and sends a message. 

>>turn your tv to NHK

He knows Arthur's awake, probably going over the schematics of whatever his next job is. Or mulling over every little detail that went wrong with this one, even though there was hardly a one because Arthur is bloody perfection, Eames knows that now, and he gets more perfect with each imperfect job. The only thing Eames doesn't know is if Arthur will text him back.

It's five minutes later when he does.

>>Why is that girl dressed like a giant panda in a vat of pudding?

Eames grins as he watches that very girl shout something in choppy English before eating the pudding with a duck-shaped spoon.

>because we are in japan darling, why else?

He debates deleting part of that, but hits 'send' anyway.

Ten minutes later:

>>Should I even bother asking why this guy is attempting to race a cheetah or why the show thought it was necessary to go to Africa?

>because there arent any cheetas in japan, dont be daft

Eames stays up quite late that night. Arthur does, too, but they don't say goodbye. 

(It's odd, Eames thinks later, but they never really do.)

  


  


BUENOS AIRES

Arthur crosses paths with Eames again. Violently.

“Shit,” he seethes.

“We've got to stop meeting like this,” Eames grins wryly. He lowers his weapon, and it's a stupid mistake, Arthur thinks, but Eames is a confident son-of-a-bitch, and apparently he's pretty confident about Arthur of all things. “What do we do?”

Outside Arthur can hear more gunshots—more people from his team shooting at Eames' team—and they're getting closer. “We should text each other the city, at the very least. Keep a list of places off limit so that--”

“That's a very clever idea, darling, you're so full of them, but I was referring to right now.”

“Oh.”

“And you may kindly lower your gun.”

Arthur does. “The files are in that briefcase?”

Eames hesitates for a beat. “They are.”

“How much are they paying you?”

“Thirty grand a piece.”

“You got robbed—I'm getting fifty.”

A click of the tongue. “Fifty if you actually  _deliver_.”

More bullets, and Arthur's mind is racing like a steam engine about to run over the farmer's daughter in a bad movie from the 20s. “I'll give you five grand a piece if you forge me a copy of the files—a  _good_  copy, damn it,” Arthur says before Eames can even open up his mouth. 

Eames thinks. “Ten grand.”

“What? Fuck you—seven.”

“Nine?”

“Seven and a  _half_. And have it to me in five hours.”

“And you owe me a dinner.”

“I—what? Seriously?”

“A nice dinner,” Eames grins.

Arthur beats his smile into submission. This is ridiculous. “Fine, whatever.”

A pleasant sigh slips past Eames' lips. “Darling, you're thinking like a thief—am I rubbing off on you?”

“Like a cold sore,” Arthur mutters, because he's starting to think it's true.

More gunshots, and Eames moves to leave the warehouse, but something pulls him back. “Just out of curiosity... What do you use the money for? You don't gamble, drink, sleep with pros--”

“Student loans are a bitch, Mr. Eames.”

And there's a brief pause after the joke—between them, between gunshots outside, between heaven and earth—and Eames just looks at him. Stares, face incredibly open and raw and it takes Arthur by surprise, and before he can even stutter or shoot him Eames is smiling. It's a smile full of teeth, one slightly crooked, a genuine gleam in his eyes, and Arthur's not sure if he's seen Eames' real smile before this.

There's a chuckle in his voice as he leaves: “Cover me, Arthur. I'll call in an hour or two.”

Arthur is struck by a sudden sense of  _what the hell just happened_ like never before.

  


  


NEW YORK CITY

Months later, Eames knows Arthur is in New York—because he messaged him as such—and he decides to make a stop before heading to Montreal to see an heiress about a spoiled grandson. He manages to drag Arthur away from his hotel in Chelsea where he's compiling files upon files of data, most of it utterly useless.

“When would you ever need to use the knowledge that the mark was a carrot in his kindergarten school play about the food pyramid?” 

An eyebrow twitches. “You never know.”

Eames chuckles and calls a cab, Arthur barking out directions to the driver he's sure is trying to rip them off. When they're seated at the restaurant, Eames finally realizes the irony of Arthur's choice of dining.

“The Russian Tea Room?” Eames smiles slyly. “You recall Moscow was where we first met.”

Arthur shrugs as the waitress takes their menus from him. “Not officially.”

“I prefer Saint Petersburg anyway.”

“I don't. It's too European; seems fake to me sometimes, like it's trying to be something it's not.” Arthur glances up from laying out a napkin on his Armani trousers. “No wonder you like it.”

“I am nothing more than I am meant to be,” Eames says, lifting his wineglass slightly.

For a moment Arthur studies him before mirroring the action with his water. “Amen.”

  


  


At the airport later that night, Eames' flight is delayed by an hour, and so he settles into the first class lounge and dials Mal. It bothers him that Mal's never the one to initiate a call anymore, but Eames supposes she's a busy mother now, so she can hardly be blamed.

“Hello?”

“Good evening, pet—how are you?” Eames nods to a waiter for a flute of champagne; for some reason he always wants a glass when he hears that lovely French accent. It's as if he's one of Pavlov's mongrel dogs.

“Fine.”

Eames waits a moment in the silence. It's never been like Mal to leave others wanting in a conversation. “Well, good,” he says lamely. “And Dom?”

A shaky breath. “The same. What's this about?”

Her voice is so chilly that Eames almost considers asking the waiter for a parka too. “I just wanted to inquire as to your expert opinion about a mutual American acquaintance.” Eames pauses, waits for Mal to dig for gossip and information, and grows worried when she doesn't. “Pet, is everything really alright? Do you need me to come out to LA for anything at all?”

“No, don't bother. It doesn't matter.” 

“What do you me--”

“I have to go make dinner.”

“Mallorie, I know your anniversary is soon, but it's really no trouble for me to--”

Dial tone. She'd hung up.

Eames frowns at his phone, wondering. He's suddenly lost all thirst for the champagne.

(He'll never get the taste for it back.)

  


  


SHANGHAI

There are things Arthur knows. He knows all the numbers in pi up to the fiftieth digit, and after that he'll count on you not knowing any more either and rattle off a few random ones. He knows that he hates ordering American food in a foreign country because it's cheating, but damn it he's a sucker for good pizza even if it's in China that he's eating it. Arthur knows for a fact that a Kalashnikov is the best rifle ever made—and not because it's accurate or decent on the reload, but because the 'ka-LACK' sound it makes when you're just about to shoot it is enough to make a grown man shit his pants. Arthur also knows what a broken rib sounds like as a foot or fist or brick is hitting a man's chest, as opposed to a bruise or hairline fracture. 

There are _many_  things that Arthur knows.

The next time Arthur meets Eames, he knows that he will be twenty-eight and Eames will still have shitty taste in clothing and they're going to fuck. Maybe not today, maybe not tomorrow, but soonish, and violently if he has any inkling about these things. Which he does. (Always.) 

Then he happens to log onto his email and see the link to a news article sent to him by a friend of a friend. 

Arthur suddenly knows nothing anymore.  


>   
> **Los Angeles (CNN)**  -- The body of famed dreamshare specialist Mallorie Cobb (nee. Miles) was recovered from South Figueroa Street late Wednesday night. According to witnesses, Cobb fell out of a fourteenth-story window from one of the penthouse suites at the downtown Marriott. The suite was, according to one police officer who spoke on the condition of anonymity, “a complete mess with furniture broken in signs of a struggle.” Police are investigating the nature of Cobb's death. She is survived by her mother, father—the famous Professor Miles of PASIV notoriety—and her husband, plus two young children. Mr. Cobb could not be reached for comment when contacted-----  
> 

  
He had sent them roses for their anniversary. White and red.

Arthur's not sure whether to vomit first or pick up the phone so he switches onto autopilot and staggers to the hotel phone—why didn't he use his cell phone, it was in his pocket—and punches in the number by memory. It just beeps and beeps and he's wondering if Dom blocked the line and then he remembers he's in China—need area code, country code first, it's 1 and then—and Arthur hangs up, does it again, and it rings and his room's bill is going to be astronomical and it rings and rings and--

“Hey this is Dom, leave a message.”

Beep.

“Dom. Dom, for fuck's sake, call me.” He almost hangs up, but jerks the phone back in time to say: “It's Arthur,” before tripping to the bathroom to stare at the toilet. 

Is he going to puke up his guts? It feels like it—maybe the tub would be better? Arthur hasn't been sick in a long time—but it doesn't really _feel_  like there's anything coming up. He had soup dumplings for breakfast—because no one knows what good cereal or pancakes or waffles are in this country—but it was a long time ago, so maybe he's not going to throw up. Okay, so the toilet is definitely the better option—if it happens—even though it's going to remind him of that time in high school he got wasted on cheap box wine and spent the night locked in his friends' bathroom and lost his wallet and Arthur fucking hates drinking, hates losing control, but what's in control anymore? Mal's dead—CNN fucking said she's dead, there's no arguing with goddamned CNN—and she has kids, has Dom, has people who love her because she's  _lovely_ and oh god, here it comes--

Arthur finishes puking when his phone rings. He wipes his mouth with a towel and stifles a groan. “Hello?”

“Hey, sorry. I... I didn't recognize the number calling earlier.”

“Dom.” Arthur feels dizzy, has to sit on the floor, on the cold tiles. “Dom, I read it in the news—what, what happened?”

Dom's breath hitches, and Arthur knows he's going to hang up in less than three minutes before he starts to sob on the phone. “Just. She jumped.”

“I...” Arthur has enough of his brain to know that 'Why?' is completely awful at this point.

(Maybe there will never be an answer to that, anyway.)

“Look, I'm sorry I didn't call, it's been--” Dom sighs, and Arthur can almost see him raking his fingers through his hair. “I gotta go. The kids...”

And Arthur gets a fucking grip of himself, because _that's what he does_. “Yeah. I'll be stateside in a few days, just call me when you need me.” Not if, but when. He'll cancel this job tonight, or find his team a replacement.

There's only a shaky breath on the other side of the line. Arthur says goodbye to it—three minutes is over—and they both hang up.

  


  


An hour later, something clicks in Arthur's mind. If Dom didn't call him, there's no way in hell he called Eames. Arthur knows then that he's got the job, tracking that bastard down and telling him that his friend just splattered her guts all over South Figueroa Street. 

He vomits one more time before running his hands under the tap, almost forgetting that the water isn't clean enough to drink.

Arthur stands, straightens his tie, and grabs the tiny whiskey bottles from the minifridge and downs three before dialing. Eames is in Rome; the text message came last month and Arthur's avoided Italy and most jobs in the vicinity like the plague.

The phone only rings twice.

“Eames.”

“Arthur, what a surprise. What have I done this time that requires your schoolmarm scolding?”

He is blissfully unaware, and Arthur is hit with a sense of guilt so hard that he has to sit on the bed. “I need to see you.”

There's a long pause on the other end of the line. “When, exactly?”

“As soon as possible. Where are you?”

“Rome still. I've a job that should wrap up in a week, but it's a fairly undercover operation. Sicilians; you know how it is.” Arthur can almost see the questioning frown that must be on Eames' face. “Do you require my services?”

“Fuck.” Arthur flops down on the bed. He's starting to feel that whiskey. “That's too... Shit.”

Another pause. “Darling, what's going on? Because if you're hitting on me, I'm flattered--”

“Eames. Please... shut up, for one minute.” And to his surprise, Eames does just that. Arthur rubs his forehead. The ceiling looks fuzzy around the edges of his eyes. “I'm sorry,” Arthur mumbles. And good god is he ever.

“Arthur. What's the matter?”

“Mal...”

Eames' voice goes tense: “What about her?”

Arthur stares at the white, flat, fuzzy-around-the-edges ceiling. “She's dead.”

She's _dead_ , because she didn't  _die_ —she _jumped._

He recalls there being silence—stunned, disbelieving, angry, sorrowful—on the phone. 

  


  


After that Arthur switches to autopilot again, answering in clipped sentences, trying to ignore the wrong way Eames' voice sounds, and tallying up how many mileage points he's going to need to get back to America. All Arthur remembers for sure is counting the flecks of dirt on the ceiling, counting thirty-two colored spots of dirt, and wondering how they'd gotten there in the first place.

  


  


LOS ANGELES

Eames feels nothing, and too much of it, when he walks into the dim room.

“They think I did it.” Dom stares out the window, at the beads of water. “They think I killed my wife, Eames.”

And Eames sucks in a quiet breath, because for all he has loathed and mistrusted and begrudged Dom Cobb, he knows the man could never—never in a million years.

Distantly, through the corridors, he can just make out the sound of Arthur barking out orders to the caterers about vegan soup choices. Eames would laugh, if he could.

“This,” Eames says quietly as he jots down a phone number and name, “is a lawyer I know in the area. Tell him I sent you—he owes me—and listen to every last thing he tells you to do because it'll probably save your skin. I know from experience.”

Listlessly, Dom takes the card without even so much as a hint of a smile. “Thank you.”

It makes Eames glad, in a way, to know that Dom's grief is real and that, frankly, he was an ass for ever doubting before that birthday party in Lyon. He may not be Dom Cobb's biggest fan, but he loved Mallorie, and that counts for something in Eames' book. “Go to your children, Dom. Arthur will take care of everything here. I can charm any guests away from you if needed.”

With a slow nod, Dom turns from the window. In it's reflection, Eames can see him pause in the doorway to talk with someone—Arthur; even his fuzzy reflection is impeccably dressed—before slinking away stiffly and quietly to his son and daughter who don't understand anything about the day.

Arthur clears his throat. “Sorry I couldn't pick you up at the airport.”

“You're busy. But,” Eames smiles tiredly, “you can make it up to me.” He holds up the black tie draped loosely in his fingers.

Arthur snorts softly. “You're hopeless.” But still he takes the fabric, shifts Eames' collar and drapes it around his neck like a gentle noose. Deft fingers fasten the top shirt button and brush at Eames' throat and Arthur begins his work, looping fabric in that mysterious way Eames has never bothered to learn perfectly. “There.” He snugs up the knot, eyes soft and exhausted at the edges. “You look respectable.”

“Hm.” The words from Eames' lips are stated plainly, no coy hint of flirtation within them: “This would almost be romantic, if it were any other day.” 

Arthur is quiet for a long moment. He just stares at his fingers, at the knot, at Eames' jaw before speaking. “We're going to have to help him. No one else can—or will.”

“I already gave him the name of a good lawyer.”

“He told me, Eames,” Arthur says softly, shaking his head. “It's not going to be good enough.”

Eames doesn't know what to say to that, so he contemplates touching Arthur's fingers, but he waits too long. Arthur lets go of the tie and returns to being on point for Mallorie Cobb's funeral and wake. They don't talk for the rest of the evening.

Everything else about that awful day Eames chooses to forget.

  


  


LONDON

“Do you believe in love at first sight?”

“I'm flattered, pet, but alas I am married to the sea.”

Mal hits Eames. “Not you; I met someone at university last semester. An American student in my father's course.”

“An American?” Eames wrinkles his nose. “You've always had odd taste. Fancy a stroll to that fish and chips place down the block?”

“You're ignoring my question.”

“Ah, yes—what was it?”

Mal sighs patiently. “Do you believe in--”

“Love at first sight? No.”

She looks at him, waiting, and she's always had those eyes that will get the answer out of you sooner or later.

“I believe in a love that grows, if you must know. Take that tree there—it had to start small, just a sapling. But with enough attention and sunshine and good old English rain it became large enough to drop a branch on my car last summer. And, just like love, eventually it will wither and die.”

It's Mal's turn to wrinkle her nose. “Such a romantic.”

“It's the truth, pet; you love until you don't, and you don't until you do. Love at first sight is...” Eames shrugs. “Just not true.”

“Well. You may love in your way, and I shall love in mine.”

“Fair enough. Now, how about those chips?”

  


  


MUNICH

Arthur meets Dom at a cafe. He looks better, more grounded, and smiles when Arthur sits across from him. “Long time no see, Arthur.”

“How was your... vacation in Paris?”

“Good; Eames mailed me a ton of new passports and Miles showed me some of his latest work. He's been stateside to see the kids a few times since they're with his ex-wife.”

Arthur nods politely, even though he'd known as much from keeping tabs on Dom all along. “How's that going?”

Dom's lips tighten. “Not bad.”

Arthur doesn't push it. 

Instead they chat about the weather, how the Yankees have been losing—though neither of them watch many games any more—and the price of airline tickets. He quickly checks a text message from Eames. (It says '>>Cairo.' and nothing more.) Eventually, Arthur cuts to the chase: “So you said you needed a job. I'm actually looking for an architect for this next--”

“I don't think that's a good idea.”

“But you're one of the best.” Arthur frowns, frankly surprised. “Dom, that's like Michael Jordan saying he wants to play baseball all over again. I could really use--”

“There have been complications.” The waitress brings their coffees, Dom says  _danke_  and adds more sugar than Arthur thinks absolutely necessary. “So. How about hiring me as an extractor instead?”

“Well, to be honest, there's a lot of debate about extractors these days. Most groups do without one since it's one more person to divide the pay up with. Usually it goes to someone to pull a double shift, I guess you could say.”

“Seems dangerous to distract someone from their intended job like that.” Dom takes a sip of his sweet coffee and there's a spark of his old self in his eyes. That 'Oh, you've never had a Philly cheesesteak? You poor savage.' self. “If you have an extractor, someone who knows dreams inside and out, you can leave the legwork to him and let everyone else do what they need to do. Extracting is an art itself, not a burden—I'm sure someone of your skill realizes it.”

Arthur smirks. “You should have been a used car salesman, you know that?”

“How about you let me in on this one, just to show everyone what I can do? Make a name for myself. And you don't even have to get them to pay me this time.”

Arthur will split his cut with Dom anyway. “Alright. Welcome to the seedy underworld of dream theft, Dom. Enjoy your stay.”

  


  


CAIRO

Taking a break from his current teammates (amateurs, all of them) and the sweltering heat, Eames opens up his email and sees a video link from Arthur with 'NHK' in the subject line. Not really knowing what to expect—and too damned curious to delete it—Eames clicks and waits for the webpage to load.

It's the Japanese show of the man racing a cheetah and a girl dressed like a panda in chocolate pudding.

Eames laughs and maybe falls in love a little.

  


  


NEW DELHI

Arthur sees Mal. 

Arthur sees Mal in the dream, in an old, stylized temple where they're supposed to find out if a woman is cheating on her wealthy husband.

Arthur sees Mal, freezes, and she fucking  _stabs_  him. In the neck.

Mal stabs Arthur, Dom shoots him in the head and he jerks awake in a stuffy room over the customer's restaurant. Dom wakes up a moment later, and Arthur rips out the needle and starts packing up the PASIV with quick, efficient movements. His breath comes out in angry puffs.

“Arthur.”

He wraps up the cords, checks the mark's pulse. She'd been faithful to her husband after all, and Arthur makes sure to leave a bottle of water on the nightstand for that fact alone.

“Arthur. Talk to me.”

He slams the PASIV shut, but doesn't turn to the sofa. “What the hell was that.”

Behind him, Dom sighs.

“Dom. What the hell was she doing there?”

“I told you, there had been... complications.”

If that isn't the understatement of the century. “How long?”

A pause. “Long enough.”

This is their fourth job together. 

“Christ.” 

Arthur stands with the PASIV and for the first (only) time, walks out on Dom Cobb.

  


  


ANKARA

Eames works with them both just once before the Inception, briefly, sees the shade of Mal through a sniper's scope and punches Dom Cobb when they all wake up. And then he ignores her— _it_ —each time it occurs in the dream, because it's not her. Not even close. And Dom Cobb's subconscious couldn't even get her right and Eames hates him a bit for it.

Dom takes the punch, laughs it off later with that sad, good-natured way of his, and Eames bites the inside of his lip to keep from doing it again.

“You're not going to yell at me for punching your partner?”

Arthur nearly misses a note on the old piano. “My what?”

“Oh please. You've been working together on the last, what is it...” Eames counts the cities on his fingers that aren't occupied by a glass. “Ten, is it? Ten jobs in a row, from what he's told me.”

“I'm just trying to keep him busy the only way I know how.” Arthur arranges the sheet music again, studies it briefly before stroking the keys, playing each one perfectly, mechanically, with practiced precision. His head would probably explode if someone asked him to improvise something.

Eames finishes his drink and sets the glass down on a crate of rusted clarinets, dust kicking up with each step he takes towards the piano. “So you're not angry?”

“...No.” Arthur's eyes stay on the keys, not even flickering over at Eames. He sits beside Arthur on the bench with his back towards the piano. It creaks, just slightly. “No, he deserved it. But if you do it again--”

“What song is this? Greensleeves?”

“It was the only music in the warehouse I could find.”

Eames chuckles, crosses his legs and listens to the song, thinking of his grandmother playing it while he lay on a thick rug in her living room. The notes are slow, languid, melancholy and seep into Eames' blood. He thinks of home—hates this song for making him do so—and when Arthur gets to Eames' favorite verse (If you intend thus to disdain, It does the more enrapture me) he can't help but hum along.

The final notes echo off crates and cracked windows and Eames waits for them to dissipate before turning his head slightly, looking at the stretch of skin just above Arthur's pressed shirt collar. “You can do better.”

“I'll have you know I took lessons for six years.”

“You can do better than Cobb, darling.”

Arthur's hands stay poised above the black and white keys. “...You mean you?”

“Yes. I do.”

“We're not partners, Eames. He needs my help.”

“What he needs is a shrink.”

Arthur turns with something hot and angry in his eyes. And maybe Eames mistakes the motion or maybe they've put this on pause too long for him to care; either way he silences any retort by lifting his chin to meet Arthur's lips with his own. It's quick and chaste and it feels like a false start, even to Eames, and he pulls away almost as quickly as he'd initiated the contact.

Arthur stares, eyes and expression completely closed off. He shuts the piano keys away just as neatly, a strange and stiff tone to his voice. “Good night, Mr. Eames.”

Eames watches Arthur leave and finds he doesn't have the heart to yet chase after him.

  


  


LOS ANGELES

Dom's mother-in-law always regards him with an icy stare when he drops off presents and notes and books for the kids. Arthur probably only ever had one or two drill sergeants who could match her demeanor. She snatches the packages from his hands before bolting the door, and Arthur feels his eyebrow twitch but there's little he can do about it. How Dom hasn't put a hit out on her yet he'll never know. After some of the things she's said, Arthur'd probably do it for free.

Suppressing his dark thoughts with a sigh, he lifts his fist to the oak door and goes to knock when a small voice says, “Uncle Arthur?” from the sidewalk. Arthur turns to see a young girl staring at him—scrutinizing—and a boy behind her with a wary look in his own eyes. 

“Phillipa, not s'posed to talk to strangers.”

“He's not a stranger, dummy.” She smiles and shifts her backpack before marching up the path, offering a small hand when she reaches the doorstep. “It's nice to see you again, Uncle Arthur.”

There's no way he can stop the smile blooming across his face. “And it's a pleasure to see you too,” Arthur says, giving Phillipa a gentle handshake. It seems like ages since he last saw Dom's children. “Did you both just get done with school?”

She and James nod in unison. “Wednesdays are an early dismissal.”

“I see.” Arthur eyes the house and glances down the street—both ways—and deems the moment safe from the grandmother. “Well, I have something for you—books.” 

There's a Star Wars coloring book for James—his eyes go wide and he digs his markers from his satchel instantly—and a colorful chapter book on dragons for Phillipa. Arthur supposes he should be on his way, but James is already coloring R2-D2 a ghastly shade of pink and Phillipa is inspecting the chapter about English dragons versus ones from China. He glances back at the oak door, shrugs mentally, and sits between the children on the steps.

“Did you know that there were dragons on every continent in the world? Well, excluding Antarctica.”

“It's too cold, right?” 

“It's true,” Phillipa nods. “Sometimes there are dragons in China with horse feet but they're not really dragons, they're something else.”

“A kirin, you mean? I've heard they're quite lucky.”

“Mmhm. You're a lot smarter than my teacher, Uncle Arthur; she doesn't know anything about dragons.”

Arthur feels strangely flattered.

“Thank you for the present,” Phillipa says primly. “I'll put it beside the dolls from Russia.”

Arthur blinks. “You still have those?”

“Of course! Oh, is Uncle Eames with you? He left my party before I could give him a thank you note and didn't come to any of my other birthdays.”

“...he's not with me, no.” Arthur clears his throat. “But I'm sure he knows you're thankful.”

“Will you see him again?”

“Probably,” Arthur answers honestly. “We run into each other a lot.”

“If I write a thank-you note, can you give it to him?”

“Absolutely,” he ways softly. Because, like it or not, Arthur is likely going to see Eames again no matter what. (There's some comfort in that. Maybe next time they'll get things right.)

Phillipa gets paper from her backpack—Dora the Explorer stationary, naturally—and steals a few markers from her brother. She writes neatly with even spaces and big letters, only asking Arthur how to spell the really long words and seals it with a smiley-face sticker.

And James gives him the pink R2-D2 for Dom.

Arthur puts both papers in his jacket, right next to his heart.

  


  


MOMBASA

“You can rub them together all you want; they're not going to breed.”

It's difficult to not flinch at that voice. After all, the last time Eames saw Dom seven months ago, he was sporting a bruise under his left eye. A bruise shaped curiously like Eames' fist. “You never know.” 

He loses. Again. Cards is more Eames' thing anyway. 

“Your spelling hasn't improved.”

“Piss off.” Eames grabs his money and retreats for the restaurant. 

Something about the way Dom can just waltz up to him and carry on as if nothing— _nothing_ , not the punch, not the Shade, not Mallorie in all her glory and Eames' chilly demeanor towards her boyfriend/fiance/husband—had ever happened both relieves and annoys Eames. 

He listens to the premise—Inception; now Eames is hooked—and keeps his eye on Dom's tail sitting at the bar. The job seems interesting, challenging; something that's been lacking with jobs as of late. There's just one thing Eames needs to know: “Are you still working with Arthur?”

He is, and Eames feel his stomach twist. Only thing is, he's not sure if it's in a good way or a bad way.

Time will tell.

“Friends of yours?”

“Never met the Japanese bloke before, but he looks like he can deliver payment easily enough. Long as he stays out of our way in the dream, that is.” Eames watches through the curtain as the two men get into the expensive black car and drive off for the airport. “The other is something of an acquaintance.” 

“Can he be trusted?”

He turns to Yusuf and lets the curtain fall shut. “As much as you can trust me.”

“So no, then.”

Eames crooks a finger at the cat on the desk; she hisses. “Nasty little thing.”

“She has discerning tastes.” Yusuf pets her and she purrs. Damned cat. “Trust issues aside, have you ever worked with Mr. Cobb before?”

“Once.”

“How was it?”

Eames shrugs. “He's good, probably one of the better extractors as long as he keeps his mind on the job. It's his point man I'm concerned about.”

“He isn't any good?”

“I didn't say--” Eames purses his lips, wondering what exactly he was getting at, anyway. “No, he's quite decent, I've worked with him many times.”

“Bad blood, then.” The cat keeps on purring, perched in Yusuf's lap.

“Something like that. But we're both professionals, it'll be fine.”

Yusuf frowns. “Didn't you shoot the last guy you said that about?”

“It was only a flesh wound.”

“Gunshots aren't flesh wounds, Eames.”

“I'm a thief, not a doctor, Yusuf. So I'll see you in Paris?”

“That's simply too much money to turn down, even if he does want me to go into the field,” Yusuf sighs. “Of course I'll be there. Do you know a way I can get my chemicals through customs across the borders?”

Eames just looks at him.

“Right. Sorry,” Yusuf grins. “Forgot who I was talking to.”

  


  


PARIS

They've been dancing around one another since Eames got to Paris, feeling the warehouse out like dogs scoping out territory. Dom has ignored it—or grown used to it—while Ariadne studies them curiously and Yusuf just rolls his eyes. They're practically zoo animals at this point, and Arthur's considering charging admission.

Eames kicked his chair and Arthur bit his tongue and it took him by surprise for more than one reason.

Eames laughed as Yusuf pushed him to topple over and over again—things seemed more in place. 

Arthur spent his time training Ariadne and keeping an eye on Dom; Eames spent his learning the Forge—and even more normality was gained.

But there is still a sliver of distance between them. And Arthur suddenly figures out that it is his turn to speak first, having been the one to put that distance there in the first place. It's time for a second chance, just so long as all the pieces fall in order like stepping stones across a pond. 

Arthur will lay the first one.

“Look, I'm not...  _trying_ to be condescending or anything.” Arthur glances up from his workspace. “This job just has to go perfectly.”

Eames hums from his chair and flips through a few more papers. “Of course.”

“And if it does, Dom can see his kids again.”

“If Saito can deliver, yes.”

“So then after that, Dom won't be in this business any longer.”

“I would suppose as much.”

“Eames. There are only so many olive branches I can extend here.”

An eyebrow lifts at that. “What is the nature of this olive-laden branch, exactly?”

Arthur meets Eames' steady gaze, keeping his mouth shut. Partly because Ariadne's returned from a coffee run, partly because he's not sure what he's asking for either. Frustrated, he packs up his things, a slip of paper falling from his notebook. It says  _Uncle Eames_  and has a sticker on it. 

He'd almost forgotten. Arthur picks it up slowly, carefully.

Once his coat is on and he's said goodnight to Ariadne, Arthur makes his way for the exit. But first, he stops just before Eames and holds out the note. “Here.”

Eames glances up, suspicious. “What's this?”

“I should have given it to you sooner, but it's been a rough few weeks,” Arthur says lamely. “I'm sorry.”

Something in Eames' eyes flickers at that—up from the note to Arthur's face—and he takes the paper slowly.

Arthur mutters a goodbye and turns on his heel before anything else can be said. 

The next day, amid final preparations and practice runs, Arthur finds an inconspicuous envelope on his desk, with  _Uncle Eames_  crossed out. There is a note and a ticket.  
 __  
Come join us tomorrow. 3PM west entrence.  
  
Arthur looks over to Eames, asleep on a lawn chair, and puts the envelope in his pocket.

  


  


“I didn't think you were coming.” Ariadne grins around her scarf and gives Arthur a playful punch. “You two aren't going to bitch at each other like an old married couple, right? Or else I'm leaving you guys at the gift shop.”

Arthur and Eames share a glance and she actually looks surprised—then, god help them, suspicious—when neither make a retort.

Eames clears his throat. “Ariadne said she wanted to see the Louvre one last time before Sydney and complained that the tickets are too expensive for a poor college student.” 

And Arthur's worked with her enough to sense Ariadne's benevolence as she picks up on the awkward air between himself and Eames. She deposits herself neatly between them, Arthur observes, a temporary wall ready to be torn down at a moment's notice. “You know a gentleman would have just bought tickets instead of making counterfeit ones, right?”

“Oh, so I'm a gentleman, am I?” Eames offers her an elbow and feigns hurt when she brushes it aside. “You wound, Ariadne, you truly cut me deep.”

Arthur inspects the counterfeit ticket as they walk through the entrance. He tries one last olive branch, lame as it may be: “And you do realize that 'Louvre' isn't spelled with two o's, Mr. Eames?”

Ariadne looks between them expectantly, and Arthur suddenly realizes that she's going to be hell to deal with if she ever decides to blackmail him.

“You know how we English feel about the French and their silly language.” Eames wiggles his eyebrows and offers his elbow instead to Arthur who makes a show of rolling his eyes. 

Suddenly, all is well.

“It'll be a miracle if we get in,” Ariadne sighs dramatically.

Arthur shrugs, something relaxing in his chest with each step they take. “I'll spring for real tickets if that's the case.”

“If I could pass off that _Saint Peter's Denial_  painting of mine to the Louvre, surely a simple ticket will be just as good, darling.”  
 __  
Darling.  
  
Arthur follows them into the museum and smiles to himself. 

  


  


LOS ANGELES

They're still waiting for Dom and Saito to wake up. Ariadne has a calm look that Eames envies just a bit, Yusuf's run to the bathroom finally, and Fischer looks so introspective he could probably give the Dalai Lama a run for his money. And Arthur, at Eames' side, is watching Dom with something like fierce hope and confidence. Eames suddenly believes it too; Dom and Saito will wake up in a few minutes like a babe from a nap. There's nothing to worry about.

Puffs of white cloud roll by the windows as the plane begins its descent. 

Eames thinks of Level One—the cab, the gunshots, Arthur immediately checking him for wounds; _Are you alright?_ before anyone else. Of that predatory surge when Dom yelled—accused someone other than himself of being anything less than professional, much less  _fucking mental_ —and the kicked-dog look in Arthur's eyes.

Eames thinks of Level Two—the concern, the headphones, the banter that fell as easily as rain and he thinks of  _Go to sleep, Mr. Eames_ and how he could get used to hearing that.

Eames thinks of Level Three—the Shade and how little he'd actually felt towards it. Just a shell, nothing more. His worries lay with someone else, someone actually living and breathing with blood pumping through their veins. Not a memory, but someone to make memories with.

The only person he'd reminded (gently) to be back for the kick had been Arthur.

From the corner of his eye, Eames watches Dom Cobb leave the airport without even glancing back once. He won't be seeing Dom in this business any longer, that much is for certain. He's glad.

Saito and Eames share a brief nod—the man looks utterly exhausted—before departs for god-knows-where. That leaves just him and Arthur at the baggage claim with a handful of other passengers staring at the silver track. Eames could vanish—should vanish, splitting up is always protocol—and catch a taxi and hit a bar. Eames could leave, go right for the ticket counter and book a trip straight to Monaco to piss away everything he'd just earned. Or, Eames could simply stay.

He collects his suitcase and goes to stand beside Arthur, both of them watching the other luggage in silence for a few moments.

“My bag is always the last one out. Just bad luck I guess.”

“Everyone says that, darling.”

Arthur merely shrugs.

They watch a few parcels slide by. “You'll forgive me if this seems unprofessional, but frankly I think we've put it off long enough. And if we have one more roadblock of any sort, there'll not be enough gin and tonic in the world to get me through it.”

Arthur glances at him, but says nothing. That's enough incentive to go on.

“I'm frankly sick of point men who can barely wipe their own arses. At the very least, we should work together from now on; we're the best.”

“And at the very most?”

“Maybe we're destined to be one of those pairs you'd mentioned in Lyon, darling, and maybe we're not.” Eames shrugs, smiling slightly as he tells the truth on one of those rare occasions: “It's pretty simple; I'm willing to find out if you are.”

After a brief moment, Arthur clears his throat—glances a bit to the left, bit to the right—and steps close to Eames, fingers reaching out to straighten his tie. It could be a friendly action; it could be something more. “I have a job in Timbuktu next month, Mr. Eames,” he says in a low voice. “Would you care to join me?”

They are one of those pairs, Eames knows it down to his very bones.

“As long as we can go somewhere pleasant and tropical where they serve drinks with tiny umbrellas beforehand.”

“I will give that serious consideration.”

“Darling, you're too kind.” 

Eames lets Arthur pull at his tie for a kiss that he is going to count as their first, despite what the roster may say. 

Arthur hums into the brief press of lips before pulling back. “Mnf, my bag. Finally, Jesus...”

It's then that Eames notices they're alone in the baggage claim, a single security guard leering at them from behind plexiglass. “My God, you were being perfectly serious about your luggage always being last off the plane, weren't you?”

Arthur hefts it from the track. “I told you so.”

“What Mayan god did you offend to enact such a curse?”

A soft snort, and Arthur turns to leave. “Come along, Mr. Eames.”

Eames follows, and he'll continue to do so for quite some time, his love for Arthur growing with each step.

**Author's Note:**

> Pats vs. Genos cheesesteak legend
> 
> Greensleeves Piano: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=P5ItNxpwChE  
> Greensleeves Vocals: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=BwcSyUynSj0
> 
> The painting [Saint Peter's Denial] “was found in an attic in Luneville” and sold at auction in Nancy on 19 March 2000. 
> 
>  
> 
>  
> 
> Comments are appreciated like whoa. This was my first time writing Inception, so I'm wondering if I did it any justice at all ;3;


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